


Without Them We’d Be Doomed

by temporaryistemporary



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt Toby Smith | Tubbo, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Phil is a Bad Dad, Ram Hybrid Toby Smith | Tubbo, Scars, this is about the characters not the people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:09:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29670519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporaryistemporary/pseuds/temporaryistemporary
Summary: The world hasn’t been kind to them, and they have the marks on their skin and the memories in their minds to show for it
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Tubbo & Tommyinnit
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	1. Tommy

**Author's Note:**

> Every chapter is a new character

Tommy couldn’t remember how he got his first scar. Sure, Wilbur had told him the story so many times that it was now ingrained into his memory as if it were his own, but it always felt like he was watching it happen from a different perspective. He was seeing it like it was a scene in a movie, instead of a recollection from his brain.

It was such a small scar too, old and pale and barely noticeable unless he was really looking for it. The thing ran across the bridge of his nose, less than a centimeter in length, and if Tommy tilted his head _just_ right, he could make out the crevice that it carved into his face. It was right there and he couldn’t remember how it got there.

Wilbur told him he had fallen. Tommy had been a toddler at the time, only just learning to walk. His tiny fists had grabbed onto their couch and pulled himself into an awkward, wobbling stance, giggling all the while. His brother had been in the kitchen, making dinner for the both of them while their father was away, and had turned around to see Tommy tottering across the floor, arms out as if to steady himself. Wilbur was delighted at the sight, half keeping an eye on his baby brother, and half watching the food so it wouldn’t burn.

He told Tommy that he had tripped on his way to the kitchen, too slow to catch himself, and knocking his head against the edge of one of the side tables. The food was fully forgotten as Tommy burst into hysterical tears, blood pouring down nose and absolutely screeching at the top of his lungs, inconsolable even as Wilbur scooped him off the floor and held him close to his chest.

Thankfully the cut had been small, and stopped bleeding after a few moments of Wilbur holding a cloth to it, singing softly to his brother to keep him still as he hiccuped out pitiful sobs. They had no spare healing pots and Wilbur didn’t know how to brew, so he settled Tommy against his hip and tucked the still sniveling child’s head against his shoulder, occasionally carding his fingers through the boy’s hair and checking the wound for any more blood. Tommy had stayed at his brother’s side the rest of the night, refusing to let the older boy put him down, lest he start crying again, and watching as Wilbur remade their supper.

When the cut finally healed, Tommy was left with a small rift, right in the center of his face. And any explanation as to how it got there varied widely depending on who was asking at the time. The more Tommy cared for them, the closer to the truth the story would become. The only ones that knew the whole truth being Wilbur, Tubbo, and Fundy. Niki had gotten an only slightly altered version of the story, and Ranboo had gotten several versions, each one steadily approaching the truth for every time Tommy would tell him. Phil had attempted to get the full story out of them multiple times, only for Wilbur to come up with many fanatical accounts, all of them more elaborate and outrageous than the previous, until their father had given up.

Over the years, Tommy continued to obtain similar scars, mostly small and accidental. Their causes ranging from falling out of trees, to attempting to play with a particularly angry hog, to slipping on the rocks at the edge of a pond. And, of course, the more terrifying ones: like the time he had been shot at by a skeleton, the arrow barely grazing his arm, or the time he had been caught up in some loose gravel, feet floating for a moment before plummeting down and skidding against the harsh stone below. Wilbur had been horrified at the last two, and any event similar, making Tommy stick by his side for at least a week afterwards.

Tommy had been so happy after they had found Tubbo, the two had been attached at the hip ever since. They had shared memories and shared scars and they knew each other like the back of their marred hands. Wilbur wasn’t all that impressed with the injuries they would bring home, but he would smile along to their stories as he tended to their wounds.

Tommy had scars from weapon training too. A small nick from Tubbo’s stone sword here, a gash where he had accidentally shot himself with a crossbow there. Even a small burn scar on his wrist from when Wilbur had taught him how to make a nether portal.

Tommy had lots of scars and they only multiplied after entering the Dream SMP.

He hadn’t thought going to war would even be a possibility, when he followed his family to the server. But now he had a thin, blade-sized scar on his stomach, from the control room. A tiny puncture from an arrow to the heart during a duel. Small cuts on his hands and arms and legs from navigating the cliffs of the ravine that become his and Wilbur’s new home. The cut on the top of lip and the crooked bend to his nose after his fight in the pit.

There were other ones too. A burn near his elbow from a ghast, a slash against his collarbone from a sword fight, a crackling wound on his side from the withers that Techno had released. Tommy collected scars like memories, and he knew the story behind every single one.

He wished he could forget the ones from exile. The second one. Though he wouldn’t mind purging his mind of the first one either. He had gotten many scars from his time in Logstedshire, Dream hadn’t held back when he was angry and Tommy had the wounds and the stories to prove it. The ache in his arm from where the man’s axe had caught him would make Tubbo wince, when he eventually saw it. The slice that started at his shoulder and ended just under chin, from when the same weapon was held against his neck only a few days later, would make Ranboo queasy. And the splattering of pale, explosion scars on his forearms and climbing up one side of his neck, past his cheek and around his eye, spreading in twisting, jagged patterns near his hairline, would surely give everyone a shock. He hadn’t been able to hear out of his left ear for nearly three days after Dream had blown up all of Logsted, and when the sound did return, it was slightly muffled, occasionally broken up by bouts of high pitched ringing. Tommy wasn’t sure whether or not to be relieved when Technoblade didn’t mention the new injury, instead sliding the boy a few regen pots and only sending him a miffed look when Tommy would bite into a stolen golden apple.

The time spent in the arctic was probably the longest Tommy had gone without adding a new scar to his collection. Maybe it was because he had barely left Techno’s cabin, except to follow the man to L’Manberg those few times. Or maybe it was the chores that the hybrid had tasked him with, Techno claiming he needed to help around the place if he wanted to keep sticking around, distracting Tommy from his usual impulsive nature. Either way, Tommy was relieved by the break.

And then Doomsday had come around and ruined his streak. He was pleased to say he had gone nearly the whole battle without any lasting marks, only some bruises and minor cuts, a twisted ankle and a black eye maybe. Tubbo had saved him from the matching firework scars, flinging himself in front of Techno’s weapon and taking the hit meant for his friend. Tommy could’ve gone without the lightning though. The gnarled lines criss-crossed over his shoulder, some even stretching down his arm and back. He couldn’t see most of the damage, but he could feel the way his muscles would twinge under the skin, causing his arm to tense before the pressure would release.

The final fight for the discs had left him unscathed in the long run, and Tommy was happy he wouldn’t have to have anymore permanent reminders of Dream, even as he sobbed into Tubbo’s shoulder, apologizing over and over again for the older boy’s new scar. And he thanked whatever Minecraft deity that was out there that he hadn’t been any closer to the nuke Tubbo had launched, as well. He could only imagine the damage that thing would’ve caused and he had had enough of explosions, thanks.

Sometimes Tommy wondered what it would’ve been like to grow up with a calmer childhood, to not have half as many scars littering his body. To have unmarred skin, and an ear that worked, and hands that didn’t shake when he recalled one of the worse memories.

And then he would stop that train of thought before he could crash and burn, because it didn’t matter. He was Tommyinnit, a brother, a soldier, a warrior. He would always have his scars and he would most likely continue to collect them until the day he died for the last and final time. And that was fine. They were a testimony to his survival, that he had persisted and lived despite everything the universe had thrown at him.

He was Tommyinnit, he was alive, and his scars were proof of that.


	2. Tubbo

Tubbo had a thin, faint line across his jaw. He wasn’t quite sure how it got there. And neither Wilbur nor Tommy could tell him, they said they found him like that. Curled in a ball, in a box, shivering with a shallow scar glinting in the light of the lanterns. There was even a matching one on his shoulder, one that they hadn’t even noticed at first because it had been covered by the boy’s shirt. It gave no clues to its origins, only serving to mock Tubbo when he would catch a glimpse of the twin marks. He wondered if the scars had anything to do with his aversion to shouting and loud noises.

Like Tommy, Tubbo grew to have lots of tiny scars from childhood, ones that he could actually remember. For nearly every scar the other boy had, Tubbo had one to match. The crooked cut near his elbow from falling off the roof, the gash on his calf from a nasty tumble while exploring the forest, a faint crack on his wrist from bone breaking through flesh. Tommy, who had only sprained his ankle and gotten an L-shaped dip on his side, had rushed him to Wilbur, who had then hurried them both to the nearest healer. The zombie scratch on his back hadn’t required a visit to town, only a plaster and a healing potion, of which Wilbur had made himself, after pouring over every book they had on brewing and collecting all the ingredients.

Wilbur had figured out early on that they were both accident prone. Tubbo more than Tommy, as most of the younger boy’s injuries came from running headlong into dangerous situations without a care in the world, and Tubbo’s came from stumbling after him or pulling the other out of said circumstances.

Life on the SMP had been okay at first. Tubbo had quite liked the base he had built for himself, and had been crushed when it was burnt to the ground. Twice. He had been even more disheartened at the slash that remained across his throat from Eret’s betrayal, glaringly obvious against his pale skin. A few similar wounds would stick around long after the war, on his arms, and sides, and a particularly bad one behind his knee, a quick way to temporarily put him out of commission. Small scars were splattered about his back and chest, remnants of arrows shot with deadly precision, one such mark even hidden under his fringe.

And if Tubbo had thought the accumulation of scars would end with the war, he was surely mistaken.

Schlatt’s reign remained carved into his skin with shattered glass and colorful sparks. Faint cuts, awfully reminiscent of the ones on his jaw and shoulder, made their home across his arms from broken bottles thrown near his body, exploding against the wall as he cowered and shielded his head from the damage (Tubbo wondered if Quackity had similar scars). The festival was supposed to have been fun, a bit of relief outside of the White House and a way to maybe calm the president down from his drunk ravings. Those hopes went up in smoke when Techno shot him with a rocket launcher and he woke up to bursts of pale fire across his face and chest. Even now, Tubbo felt nauseous at the sight of fireworks.

He nearly lost his lunch at the sudden pain in his skull, about a week after Schlatt’s funeral. The irritation continued throughout the day, and he ended up collapsing into Ranboo’s arms as they were repairing the damage caused by Wilbur. The enderman hybrid had panicked, teleporting them to Tommy’s base, and apologizing profusely when he startled the younger boy into slamming his head against the chest he had been digging through. They quickly moved Tubbo to the bed, Tommy finding the problem when he attempted to smooth back Tubbo’s sweat slicked hair, fingers brushing over two bumps on his friends head as the other whined at the pressure. Ranboo had leaned in then, also sweeping a cold hand across the boy’s head and letting out a sympathetic warble when he felt the protrusions. At Tommy and Tubbo’s confused looks, the hybrid had explained how he had gone through something similar when his own horns had come in, and how the lumps were most likely because the horns were going to break through the skin soon. Ranboo spent the next few minutes gathering cloths and potions around Tommy’s base, before returning back to the president’s side, passing one of the bottles into Tommy’s hand. It was well into the next morning when two sharp points finally burst through Tubbo’s skull, the boy whining in relief as the pressure was taken away, and cringing back as a cloth passed over the newly sprouted horns, wiping away the blood. He had then quickly downed the potion that was pushed against his lips before passing out with his friends watching over him.

The horns were a shock. They were small and stubby and the skin around them was rough and textured, like the burns from the fireworks. Tubbo hoped they wouldn’t get any bigger. He hoped they stayed small and hidden. He couldn’t stand the thought of them curling around his ears, massive and intimidating and a reminder of a man he didn’t want to turn into.

Kicking Tommy out had never been part of the plan, but Tubbo had to admit, albeit reluctantly, the time spent away from his best friend had left him with only minor physical wounds, all from his own clumsiness, and a lack of new battle scars. He felt bad just for thinking that exiling Tommy had any kind of positive results, but he couldn’t dismiss the facts.

Doomsday brought new injuries. For everyone. Tubbo had obtained new burns in his attempt to shield Tommy from Technoblade’s wrath, along with several cracking scars from various withers. He was surprised by the lack of wounds from the TNT machine but decided not to question it, thanking the universe for at least sparing him that pain.

Later, Tubbo would take back that thanks, cursing the world instead as he stared at the second scar on his throat, crossing neatly over the first one. That one hadn’t been fatal, he had been saved just in time, but he was still pissed about it. Tubbo had considered paying his attacker back with a matching slash, but knew Sam would never allow it. The creeper hybrid was strict with his rules as warden and for that, Tubbo was grateful, but he really wanted to slice his sword across Dream’s neck, if only so the masked man could feel a tenth of what he had put them through.

Snowchester was a welcome break, and the layers of furs and leathers were great for blocking out the cold and covering up unwanted memories. Tubbo had briefly entertained asking someone how to properly use makeup to cover up the remnants from the festival, but ultimately dismissed it. He decided that the look of discomfort and the way Technoblade’s shoulders would tense at the consequences of his actions was too good to pass up. It also helped when Tommy would softly (and when had Tommy ever done anything softly?) proclaim them to be matching now, tracing the scarring across Tubbo’s nose and wincing when Tubbo would attempt to do the same for him. It hurt, but if showing off his wounds made his best friend more comfortable with his own, then he would do it.

And if, after waking surprisingly early and getting himself ready for the day, Tubbo realized he hadn’t cringed at his reflection in the mirror, well…

Maybe he could do this after all.


End file.
